Mary was the coolest girl in preschool, middle school, and now junior high. It’s funny about coolness. Perceptions change as you grow up. The people you considered cool when you were 8 are disreputable bastards who can’t think beyond the next girl in high heels and the assorted imaginations of 8 year old cool guys in 17 year old bodies. It’s tough to always be cool.
Mary did it with élan. Being cool came naturally to her. And the funny thing was, unlike most other cool people, she seriously deserved the title. You know, once in a while, you come across people who seem to be perfect at every thing. Every fucking thing. They do great at exams, they do well at sports, they can play a dozen instruments and charm talk a cicada. People like this are not supposed to exist, right?
They do exist. No one could be envious of Mary, no one could be angry at her. She had a way of cocking her head on one side and smiling a faint smile which could light up anyone’s day. The teachers adored her, her unflagging respect and attention to detail meant that they would always form a favourable opinion about her.
And not one bit was fake. It all came naturally to her. She was really this smart kid with a cheerful smile and the right word for everyone.
And Mary. Man, there wasn’t a single guy in the class who did not have a crush on her, and most of them could not hide it. She was never perturbed by the attention she always got. She never begrudged anybody anything, and she could do no wrong.
In short, I was in love with her.
Who the hell am I now? I was this guy who sat a row back and couldn’t keep myself from noticing how awesome she was. She was not cute, though. Not pretty.
Mary was beautiful. She had an ethereal quantity about her which made her a Greta Garbo, someone who would always be wondered about. She deflected pointed inquiries with ease, with a small smile which would light up her eyes and make them small rainbow like balls. Her eyes were her USP. Whenever I looked at her, I could not stop but gaze at her eyes, beautiful little orbs which seemed to be infinite in grace and character. Mary was… Mary. There was no other way about it.
Mary was running back home at full speed. School is always a tiring activity. The whole force of being in character was a painful little hobby she enjoyed.
I love pain. It defines me. It surrounds me. My life is defined with clear cut boundaries of blood and gore, and fuck, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Mary rushed inside hugs her mother. Her mother is this forty something lady who is obviously psyched about her awesome daughter. The hug is fierce. Mother cannot see the small wince that crosses Mary’s lips, pursed up to avoid screaming. They let go of each other. Mary promises to come back fresh in half an hour. She runs upstairs, locks the door behind her and sits in front of the mirror. Life is pain.
She takes out a razor and glares at the sight of it. She rolls up her sleeves, a motley collection of bruises and cuts and raises the cursed blade in preparation. Pain. She wields pain in her hand, ready to do as she commands.
With a gasp, it sinks into yet unmarked flesh, quickly bringing her best friend to the surface, from depths hitherto concealed. The rising waterfall of blood is unquenchable, uncontrollable. They answer to one master. Pain.
Mary moans in disgust. Tears, those little droplets flow and merge easily with the sea of red. Pain marks Mary in yet another place.
Serve pain. Bend down and serve this unfathomable and impossible habit, then lift your head up, and laugh.
Laugh with pain.